


all i was doing was breathing

by la_topolina



Series: The Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Continuity [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Catholicism, Drama, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hope, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24344317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_topolina/pseuds/la_topolina
Summary: How do you keep going when you know you are cursed?Transplanted from her beloved Thrissur to the cold shores of England, Meera Lal and her husband Yakov are struggling to start a family of their own. One a bleak April day, Meera goes in search of a sign to help her keep hoping in the future.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Continuity [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745833
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	all i was doing was breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Text in {braces} is being spoken in Malayalam.
> 
> Trigger warning for discussion of miscarriage.

Of all the months of the year, Meera Lal hates April the most. English weather is always cruel, but in April it turns actively sadistic; taunting the inhabitants of the miserable island with half a day of fine weather, only to follow it with weeks of slate skies and cold rain as penance. Meera is in a foul mood on this particular morning as she peers out the kitchen window at the clouds hanging low over Diagon Alley like some great gray blanket waiting to smother them. Amma and Achan are already downstairs at Dosas, frying fresh banana chips and preparing chutney and pickles for the early lunch crowd. Yakov sits in the breakfast nook, eating porridge and drinking tea in the British fashion while Meera struggles against her aching joints to pull together a proper chai and peel an over-ripe mango. Not that her stomach has any mind for food, sitting as it is, hard and sour under her bitter heart.

“ _Myru_!” she swears, nicking her thumb with the paring knife and dropping both mango and knife into the sink.

“What is it now, Meera?” Yakov asks, glancing up from the _Daily Prophet_.

“Nothing.” 

She pops her thumb in her mouth and sucks on the wound, neither needing nor wanting her husband’s help. He ignores her spleen and gets up from the table; healing her cut with a quick wand flick and a muttered _episkey_.

“Sit down and let me get your breakfast,” he coaxes.

“I don’t need you to get it for me.” She is not ready to stop being angry yet, and the fond look in his dark eyes makes her feel guilty for clinging to her irritation.

“I know, but I want to. Humor me.”

“Fine! My hands hurt anyway.” 

It is an old illness, and the flares of pain are unpredictable and sometimes debilitating. Today it is only annoying, as is Yakov’s concern. When she can, she likes to pretend that it does not exist, as though she might keep it trapped and harmless if only she avoids speaking its name.

“You should have told me,” he chides gently. “I would have gotten it for you earlier. Why did you let me sit there with my head in the clouds when I should have been helping you?”

She curls herself into one of the chairs, folding her legs under her because they do not comfortably reach the floor. She is still annoyed, but it feels good to sit (and Yakov, with his fine hands, cuts the mango more neatly than she does anyway).

“It only got bad this morning,” she admits reluctantly. “I’ll tell the Healer at my appointment.”

“I want you to be careful, Meera. It’s a delicate time.”

“I’m not a child, Yakov. You don’t need to tell me to be careful.”

“I know you aren’t a child, but sometimes it pleases you to be stubborn like one.”

On a different day, she might have laughed at that, and reminded him how stubborn he is from time to time; but today everything hurts, inside and out.

“I don’t think I will have any breakfast after all,” she says, getting up from the table and collecting her cloak and handbag as quickly as her aching joints allow.

“You must eat _something_ , Love” he protests. “Or how will the baby grow?”

“The baby is not going to grow, whatever I do, so what does it matter? It will be like all the other times.” Her eyes are blurring with hot, frustrated tears, and she whips the rippling aquamarine fabric around her shoulders.

Yakov abandons the mango on the counter and comes to catch her face with his hands. She refuses to meet his eyes; she doesn’t want his care today.

“You don’t know that. Perhaps this time we will be lucky.”

“I _do_ know. I’m cursed and that’s the way of it.” 

He persists. “I can meet you at St Mungo’s for your appointment.”

“No. Don’t bother. You have all that _work_ to do.”

“Stop it. You know that you are more important to me than work.”

“{Ha! Don’t lie to me. If I were more important to you than your work, we would still be living in Thrissur!}” 

It is satisfying to slam the door behind her and she attacks the stairs down to the street with a vengeance, pounding them beneath her sandaled feet. The smell of onions frying mingled with coriander and asafoetida beckons her to; inviting her to curb her temper and spend the morning in the comfortable approximation of home that is her in-laws’ restaurant, but she is in no mood to stifle her anger. She’s been standing on the precipice for days looking down into the abyss of fear as this appointment approaches. Anger is her lifeline, keeping her from plunging over the edge, and she can’t let go of it now.

Diagon Alley is in full swing; the shops thrown open to the day, the streets already bustling with patrons. They give Meera a wide berth though. She storms through the streets like a vengeful kala, ready to devour anything and everything in her path. Within minutes her feet are numb, it being far too cold yet for sandals. But she _hates_ the feeling of having her feet trapped in shoes, and she refuses to wear them when the temperature is above freezing. 

She has nowhere to go; really she should be home tending the housework or helping Amma and Achan pound the spices. Achan claims that no one knows how to pulverize spice the way that Meera does. That is her specialty—destroying things. But when she crushes a pod of cardamom, it transforms into something even more useful. Maybe that’s why she is useless at creating life. There isn’t anything she can _do_ to help the process. She can only sit, furiously passive, and hope that _this_ time—or _this_ time—or _next_ time—will be different.

It being the breakfast hour does not deter the patrons of the Alley from seeking sustenance at Florian Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour (indeed, many claim that ice cream is a superior breakfast—and who could say that they are wrong?) and Meera’s wanderings lead her thither. Her stomach is still uninterested in food; but her spirit wants a companion, and the wise old Florian is a sympathetic ear to many a troubled mind and broken heart. The staid exterior of the dessert haven blends in with the other tired, monochrome shopfronts (oh for the colors and the smells of Thrissur!) but the interior is a thing of beauty. Vibrant hues of fuschia and lime and indigo splash over the walls; the stools are oversized cones with cushions overflowing the top instead of ice cream; and a fountain of chocolate pours eternally from the ceiling to the floor in a delightful show of extravagance. Florian himself is manning the gleaming, saffron bar, and Meera climbs onto a stool at the end of it, setting down her burden at last.

“Meera!” Florian says, his hazel eyes brighting at the sight of her. Like a good shopkeep, he has a way of making every customer feel special and important; but Meera likes to think that when he speaks to her, the act is more sincere and less facade. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

“Has it been so long?” she replies. “You might have come by Dosas if you wanted to see me so badly.”

“I was going to, tonight, before you came and saved me the trouble.”

“A flattering tongue tells many lies, Florian.”

“I would never lie to you—you’d find me out!” He pulls a pitcher made of thick glass from beneath the bar and begins sending sliced mango into it with lazy wand waves. “What about a mango lassi today? Would that do the trick?”

“How did you know?” she asks, bemused.

“It’s my business to know.”

Milk, yoghurt, honey, and cardamom all join the mango; and with a twirl of his wand, Florian sets the whole thing blending into a perfectly smooth concoction. When it is ready, it leaps curly-cue from the pitcher and into a tall, thin glass that appears on the bar, and a thick, rainbow colored straw completes the presentation. Something about the mix of sweet and spice and cold soothes Meera’s stomach, and she sips it eagerly, blinking away the grateful tears that sting her eyes.

“Is everything well with you, Meera?” Florian askes sympathetically.

“I’m fine,” she stubbornly replies. Why does she have to become so emotional this early in pregnancy? It is a cruel joke—especially when she knows it is always doomed.

“I can see that. Is it Yakov who is not fine?”

She snorts. “He’s made me angry, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What did he do?”

“What does he ever do?” She takes a very unlady-like slurp. “He leaves his socks and his half-drunk cups of chai all over the flat. He works late at the Ministry because he forgets what time he’s supposed to come home. He sits too close to me on the sofa when I don’t want to be touched. And worst of all, he says he loves me every day; even when I’m too angry to hear it.”

“The cad.”

“Oh, stop it Florian.” She is laughing in spite of herself—Meera is as quick to laugh as she is to shout. “I know you’re on his side.”

Florian pretends to be shocked. “Not so! I’m on your side, of course.”

“Only because I’m the one in front of you. If Yakov were here, you’d be consoling him instead.”

“Maybe. But I’d never tell.” He turns away from her to tend one of his magical machines; coaxing a marmalade colored liquid into the funnel at one end, and setting the myriad paddles whirling inside. It is hypnotic the way that the mixture spins as it freezes into soft ice cream. “Do you have any good plans for the day?”

“Me? No. I have an appointment at St Mungo’s in a few hours.”

Florian is a quick man, and this last piece of information confirms for him what he has guessed is Meera’s current condition. She can tell from the compassion in his eyes that he knows her secret, and she bristles inside. It isn’t right for so many people to know; it is tempting fate, inviting disaster. She should deny his assumptions and walk away from his sympathy. But she is reckless today—reckless and angry—and she doesn’t care how many people know. In truth, she’s always thought this taboo on spreading the news of a pregnancy too early is more about protecting society from having to bear uncomfortable news than it is about protecting the mother or the tiny child. This way, if the mother loses the baby before some arbitrary “too early” time, she can suffer in solitary silence without bothering anyone. Meera has always hated that—wanting to scream her sorrow from the rooftops—and she doesn’t want to be alone today.

“I’m ten, maybe eleven weeks along I think. But don’t get excited. It’ll probably end the way all the others have.”

She is tempting fate still by speaking these horrible words; but she doesn’t care about that either. If she could, she would steal some of fortune’s weapons and strike the blows herself in the hopes of mitigating some of the inevitable pain that is to come.

“However it goes, I’ll be here for you, if you’ll let me.” Florian says gently. “Can I bring you some lassi and some of my potato rolls this evening? I seem to remember that you can usually stomach them.”

“Yes.” Meera replies, afraid that the tears she is holding back will spill over and ruin her lassi with their bitter salt. “Yes, that would be very nice.”

*****

Meera can only sit so long, inhaling the smells of sugar and cream, before her stomach demands she seek other refuge. Still far too angry (or frightened, it is hard to say which) to go home, she lets her feet carry her listlessly through the streets while her mind wanders down the dark paths of anticipation. She loses perhaps half an hour in this fashion, and when she at last gives her attention to her surroundings, she is near St Matilda’s Church in Wandsworth. It is a sorry place compared to the grand cathedral back home, and its dull gray exterior is one with the dull gray sky that hovers endlessly above it. But she climbs the stairs anyway, regretting the pale pink spires on that distant shore, her heart hovering somewhere between defiance and resignation.

The green copper of the fanciful door-knocker is the only thing worth looking at. It reminds her of Narasimha, coming to restore order to the world, and whenever she touches it, the jolt of energy from its depths reassures her that she is entering a holy place.

“{Don’t mind me,}” she says, looking the metal creature dead in the eye. “{I know it’s not your fault that the English dream in black and white.}”

The gray exterior bleeds into the sanctuary itself; the unadorned stone left naked and forlorn. The windows are bright as jewels on rare, sunny days; but today the feeble light from the overcast sky leaves them dark like the disciples on that bleak Saturday when Jesus’s body laid in the tomb; His spirit busy with the scouring of Limbo. Meera has mixed feelings about the ultramarine blue of the ceiling. Interspersed with gold-leafed stars, it _does_ draw the eye upward. But it often feels oppressive to her, unlike the brightness of her cathedral at home, with white and gold accenting the blithe colors that make her spirit feel lighter than air. 

She goes through the gaping maw of the main sanctuary into the little chapel hidden beyond Mary’s altar; her sandals slapping on the hard floor in a mournful rhythm. Here she pauses to touch her head to the floor in reverence to Him who is sitting on the altar, attended by a lone old man who slouches in a far pew, snoring lightly, head drooping against his chest. The man gives a start when the kneeler clatters against the floor (why does that always happen, however carefully you set it down?), and her anger flares up with her embarrassment. Here she is in this pit of a church, where they could not be bothered to make anything _truly_ beautiful or worthy of the King of Kings. It is Easter even—and all there is to deck the church are a few pots of lilies (white, always white, _only_ white) as though there are no other flowers or colors in the world. Even the monstrance holding God Himself is an uninspired creation of anemic gold—no adornments, no enrichment, no _imagination_!

The old man soon shuffles sheepishly out of the chapel, and Meera grimaces, knowing she is effectively trapped here. When God is on display, it is bad to leave Him alone; and although she knows she is not supposed to worry about _Karma_ anymore, she has no wish to tempt fate today. Her knees are aching already, and so she sits down on the pew, tucking her legs under her so that they do not dangle uselessly in the air. The silence of the chapel rings loud in her ears, and she fidgets with the hem of her cloak while she stares at God before her.

“{I don’t know what I’m doing here,}” she says to the white wafer that is God. “{I wish I were home. It’s Pooram there now. We would be watching fireworks and elephants and eating and drinking.}” Here she smirks. “{Well, I guess _I_ wouldn’t be eating or drinking. And I guess I’d be just as scared there as I am here. But at least I wouldn’t be _cold_.}”

She glares defiantly at the Host, and fancies she can hear God laugh at her. But it doesn’t sound like a cruel laugh. Rather, it sounds more like the sort of laugh that a mother smothers when her child has done something hilarious—but has done it with so much solemnity that she dare not laugh where the child can hear. The sentiment hovers over her, and she knows she can take it if she wishes, and wrap it around herself—but she is not ready to soften her heart, for she is afraid of what will happen if she does.

“{I never wanted to be a Christian either!}” she spits, although she knows that she is whipping herself into this frenzy by choice. “{I was happy the way I was. Why did You have to send Yakov to me? Why did you have to send him with his lopsided smile and his endless patience, and his sense of humor and have him drag me away from the temple? I was happy there.}”

And she _was_ happy there—it is true. She _did_ love Krishna and Brahma and Vishnu, and Pavarti, and Kali, and Shiva, and all the rest. She had meant to dance in the temple one day, and her limbs are fairly itching now with the need to move.

So she does. She bursts out of the pew (how she _hates_ pews! they are always the wrong size and always uncomfortable.) and she stalks to the front of the chapel. There is a wide space there between the pews and the altar; and on the stone floor there is a labyrinth painted. She starts to walk it now, the circuitous route soothing her feet and the twitching in her limbs. 

“{I know.}” she says. “{I know it wasn’t Yakov’s fault. No, it was _Your_ fault.}”

She looks God straight in the eye, and she knows that He is looking back at her. 

This is really why she left everything she had been taught and followed Yakov into his church. This moment here—when she is looking at God, and He is looking at her. 

That was all it had taken for her to fall in love, and leave her all her familiar ways behind.

She does not know how long she stands there, but when the moment passes, she starts to walk the labyrinth again. 

“{Sometimes I worry that nobody wants to be my child,}” she admits, and the tears start to spill over her cheeks. She does not bother to wipe them away. They feel good; and it is time to wash her heart with them. “{I mean, I don’t think that’s actually how it works anymore; but sometimes I still do worry. Or I worry that I’ve done something so terribly wrong that I’m being punished now.}” She looks Him in the eye again. “{Are You? Punishing me?}”

She’s reached the center of the labyrinth, and she turns back to retrace her steps. When she was a Hindu, she was taught that a perfect synergy between the _Karma_ of the parents’ souls and the child’s soul had to exist before a child could reincarnate into the mother’s body. She no longer believes this (most of the time), but sometimes, after having lost pregnancy after pregnancy (five times so far, and she _is_ counting) she feels as though no child wants to be _her_ child. And sometimes she feels punished—that God is punishing her (although she doesn’t really think that He does such things) or that maybe God and the Devil made an agreement like they did over poor Job to test her (not that she really believes that she is as righteous as poor Job to require the Devil himself to test her—a lesser demon is good enough for her). And sometimes she is terrified, wondering what did happen to those five babies she lost. Where are they? Are they lost in limbo? Or are they with God in Heaven? Will she _see_ them on the Last Day?

“{You do know where they are, don’t You?}” she asks.

She looks at Him, and He looks back at her; and when she blinks, the stone walls are no longer gray, but pulsating with all the colors of the rainbow. They dance and swirl and converge; and when her tears stop flowing, the colors slowly seep away, leaving the flat stone behind. But it no longer seems quite as drear.

“{I understand.}” she says. “{Thank You.}”

A woman with a fine set of children (three boys—two of them obviously twins—and a girl; all with hair as flaming red as their mother’s) enters the chapel with a bustle of loud whispers. They are very noisy as they climb into a pew, but Meera is happy to see them. She makes reverence to God, and she gives the children a friendly smile as she goes out to face the unknown.

She does not know what the Healer will find when she reaches St Mungo’s today. She does not know what news she will have to tell Yakov or Amma and Achen, or Florian tonight. But she is no longer afraid. She is not at the mercy of luck—for she remembers now that there _is_ no luck. And while she may find herself battered by the ripples of the actions of loved ones and strangers—near and far, all the way back to the beginning—she also knows that she does not face the future alone. 

When she reaches the street outside, the sun breaks through the clouds, and she turns her face up to it, soaking up the shy warmth it gives. 

She spreads her arms and twirls once, twice, three times under the curious eyes of the door-knocker--she is as light as a feather on the breath of God.

**Author's Note:**

> The Lal family are Syro-Malabar Christians, which is the third largest religious group in India, and traces its origins back to St Thomas the Apostle, who went there in the 1st Century CE. 46% of Syro-Malabar Christians live in the state of Kerala, and over 475,000 of them live in the city of Thrissur. Yakov is a common Syro-Malabar Christian name, and if it is at all unclear, the Yakov in this story (and his parents) are Indian. It is fairly common for Indian women to convert to their husband's religion upon marriage, but in Meera's case she simply fell in love with the Christian God during Eucharistic Adoration. At the time this story is set, there was no Syro-Malabar rite church in England, so the Lals are making do with a Latin rite church.
> 
> Meera is named for the Hindu poetess, St Meera; and the title of the story is taken from one of her poems.
> 
> Amma and Achen: Mother and Father (or in Meera’s case, Mother-in-law and Father-in-law)
> 
> Myru: A curse-word in Malayalam; literally it means “pubic hair”


End file.
